


Snick. Swish. Thud

by Curupia



Series: Broken Arrow - Alec Lightwood: A Study in Agony [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alec Lightwood Has Self-Worth Issues, Archery, Internalized Homophobia, Mentioned Jace Lightwood, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Reflection, but still, can be read as either, mentioned izzy lightwood, nothing graphic, please pay attention to triggers, post-break up?, pre-malec?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-13 23:10:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11770401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curupia/pseuds/Curupia
Summary: Snick.He let go of the arrow, his hand remaining steady by his ear, three fingers out straight and relaxed. He could still feel the impression of the Dacron string against his lip, the smell of his bow wax, the leather of his glove.Swoosh.He couldn't hear the sound like this, with the music so loud, but he could feel it. The vibrations in his left hand as the arrow left the nock resonated through his body, as did the sting of the string grazing the inside of his forearm.Thud.The arrow flew true – like it always did, like it had for years – despite the string's kiss, hitting the yellow circle forty yards away dead center.He hadn't been injured by his own weapon on accident since he was seven.Today was not an exception.





	Snick. Swish. Thud

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure why I'm being so mean to Alec this week, but apparently I can't help writing a ton of Alec-centric angst. Sorrynotsorry. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! 
> 
> Also, let me know if I should tag anything better.

_Snick. Swoosh. Thud. Snick. Swoosh. Thud._

Alec knows the sounds by heart, even though he can't hear them at the moment. Usually, he would practice his archery while others were training, teaching himself to stay focused amidst the sounds of battle, but some days, like today, he practiced alone, with the sounds of instrumental music blaring loud in his ears through ear buds. The tiny speakers so effective at drowning out everyone and everything around him. The rest of the world could have been burning for all he knew and could hear. His entire focus was on his actions. There was nothing but the bow, the arrows, and the target. For a tiny, insignificant fraction of a moment, nothing else existed but Alexander Gideon Lightwood. 

He would feel guilty later about how much he enjoyed that insignificant fraction, but for now, he took a breath and let loose another arrow. 

 _Snick_. 

He let go of the arrow, his hand remaining steady by his ear, three fingers out straight and relaxed. He could still feel the impression of the Dacron string against his lip, the smell of his bow wax, the leather of his glove. 

 _Swoosh_. 

He couldn't hear the sound like this, with the music so loud, but he could feel it. The vibrations in his left hand as the arrow left the nock resonated through his body, as did the sting of the string grazing the inside of his forearm. 

 _Thud_. 

The arrow flew true – like it always did, like it had for years – despite the string's kiss, hitting the yellow circle forty yards away dead center. 

He hadn't been injured by his own weapon on accident since he was seven. 

Today was not an exception. 

_Snick. Swish. Thud._

Alec's arm remained steady, sturdy against the biting sting of another shot fired. A small lump was raising up on his forearm, a tiny circle of swollen flesh inside of a colorful oval, a kaleidoscope of yellow, pink, green, and purple. It would grow darker as the days passed, more purples and reds, fading into greens and browns, and then yellow, until finally back to the pallid pale of his complexion. 

It had started as punishment for missed shots, a reminder of what he'd done wrong. Shoulders too tense, a drawl held too long, an unsteady wrist, an unclean release, not enough follow-through, too much follow-through. Each mistake he wore like a badge, a reminder that he could do better, be better. Somewhere along the way, as his archery improved, the reasons broadened.

He lost a sparring match. 

_Snick._

He was late to class. 

_Swoosh._

He let Izzy sneak out again. 

_Thud._

He let Jace get hurt. 

_Snick._

He had  _those_ thoughts about men, about  _Jace_. 

_Swoosh._

He disappointed his parents. 

_Thud._

The list was unending.

He knew what he'd say if they ever noticed. He rehearsed it, over and over in his head, every time he did this. But he never needed the carefully constructed excuses, the plausible explanations.

They never noticed.

They never asked. 

And every time he got away with it, the silence hurt more, cut deeper, than the bow string ever could. 

It wasn't that he  _wanted_ anyone to find out. He didn't want to talk about it, to bring attention to the fact that he had failed at something yet again, that he needed to be punished for his ineptitude. Every time he made it through the days without someone commenting on the fading bruise felt like a victory. But also a crushing defeat. Because, how could no one notice? 

He used to use an  _iratze_ to heal the bruising, but he would forget sometimes - get caught up with homework or a mission or babysitting his siblings - and it would be a day or two before he remembered to use the rune. But no one ever noticed. Accidents turned deliberate until he stopped using the rune altogether.

Still no one noticed. 

Maybe this time would be  _the_ time. The time someone saw, the time someone asked, the time he would answer with one of the carefully constructed lies he'd rehearsed obsessively since he'd started his whole thing. 

_Snick. Swish. Thud._

Maybe this time would be the last time. The last time he failed his loved ones, the last time he made a mistake, the last time he needed a reminder of how much better he could be, how much more he _should_ be. 

_Snick. Swish. Thud._

Maybe next time. 


End file.
